"You seem to have your doubts, from the tone you use," remarked Rupert dryly.
Mr. Leigh shook his head. "Life has its troubles," he observed sententiously.
"For heaven's sake, vicar, don't croak. I have had enough of that from Mrs. Beatson," a remark which the housekeeper, hovering outside the door, overheard and registered in her mind as a bad omen for her future continuance at The Big House. "I beg your pardon," went on the Squire, rather ashamed of his momentary irritability, "but I do wish people would look on marriage as marriage and not as a funeral."
"Of course, of course," ruminated Mr. Leigh. "One is always sure of a funeral, though not of a marriage."
"Vicar!" burst out the young man, much vexed at this persistent lamentation, "you are--well." He linked his arm in that of Mr. Leigh, knowing it was useless to argue, "you are hungry and there's the gong."
"Am I hungry?" Mr. Leigh asked, when he was being conducted into the dining-room. "Really I believe I am. For three or four hours I have been busy in the Muniment Room."
"I wonder you don't grow tired of fumbling amongst those dusty parchments."
"No! No! No! They are most interesting. Yet," went on the vicar, as he spread his napkin across his spare knees. "I may have to postpone my history of Barship Parish after all--until I return from Yucatan, that is."
"Yucatan!" Rupert nodded to the butler that he should fill Mr. Leigh's glass with sherry, for the vicar was too absent-minded to give the order. "Where is Yucatan?"
Mr. Leigh devoted his attention to the soup, and then looked up dreamily. "Yucatan," he repeated. "Dear me, Rupert, your geographical knowledge is limited."